Casey Ryan eBook

CHAPTER XV

We can all remember certain experiences that fill
us with incredulity even while we admit that the facts
could be proved before a jury of twelve men.
So Casey Ryan, having lost his outfit and come so near
to death that he could barely keep his feet under
him, walked into a tent and stood there thinking it
couldn’t be true.

A folding camp chair stood near the opening, and Casey
sat down from sheer weakness while he looked about
him. The tent was a twelve-by-fourteen, which
is a bit larger than one usually carries in a pack
outfit. It had a canvas floor soiled in strips
where the most walking had been done, but white under
table and beds, which proved its newness. Casey
was not accustomed to seeing tents floored with canvas,
and he stared at it for a full half-minute before
his eyes went to other things.

There was a folding camp table of the kind shown in
the window display of sporting-goods stores, but which
seasoned campers find too wobbly for actual comfort.
The varnish still shone on legs and braces, which helped
to prove its newness. There was a two-burner oil
stove with an enamel-rimmed oven that was distinctly
out of place in that country and yet harmonized perfectly
with the tent and furnishings. The dishes were
white enamel of aluminum, and there were boxes piled
upon boxes, the labels proclaiming canned things too
expensive for ordinary eating. Two spring cots
with new blankets and white-cased pillows stood against
the tent wall, and beneath each cot sat two yellow
pigskin suitcases with straps and brass buckles.
They would have been perfectly natural in a Pullman
sleeper, but even in his present stress Casey snorted
disdainfully at sight of them here.

Things were tumbled about in the disorder of inexperienced
campers, but everything was very new and clean except
an array of dishes on the table, which told Casey
that one man had eaten at least three meals without
washing his dishes or putting away his surplus of food.
Casey had eaten nothing at all after that one toasted
rabbit which he had choked down on the evening when
he gave up hope of finding the burros. He got
up and staggered stiffly to the table and picked up
a piece of burned biscuit, hard as flint.

While he mumbled a fragment of that he looked into
various half-filled cans, setting them one by one
in a compact group on the table corner; which was
habit rather than conscious thought. Poisonous
ptomaine lurked in every one of them, which was a
shame, since he had to discard half a can of preserved
peaches, half a can of roast beef, half a can of asparagus
tips, a can of chicken soup scarcely touched and two
thirds of a can of sweet potatoes. He salvaged
a can of ripe olives which he thought was good, a
can of India relish and a can of sweet gherkins (both
of the fifty-seven varieties). You will see what
I meant when I spoke of expensive camp food.